Princess of Dhagabad, The (35 page)

“Princess. Princess! Wake up! It is
time.”

Nanny Airagad’s voice comes to her as if from
afar, forcing her out of the bonds of her dream; and coming back to
her senses she slowly opens her eyes.

“She is tired, poor darling,” Nanny Fatima
says beside her. “Can you imagine, receiving all those suitors with
the crowd watching and everything?”

The suitors
, the princess thinks as
she tries to concentrate on the fuzzy ornaments of the bed curtain.
Yes. Something in her life has changed today. She is not what she
was before. She is—
betrothed
.

As her mind slowly comes back from the dream
to reality she feels a strange anguish fill her heart. She
desperately wants to see Hasan—she wants to so much that tears come
to her eyes. She sits up sharply in her bed.

“Nanny, is that you? Where is Hasan?”

“I don’t know, princess,” Zeinab grumbles,
standing closest to her bed at the moment. “Why would you need
Hasan? Your chosen one, your groom, Prince Amir, is waiting.”

“Hasan!” the princess exclaims, feeling that
her entire life depends on his appearance in her quarters right
this minute.

“Please calm down, princess,” Fatima coos in
her soft gentle voice. “You are tired. Let me comb your
hair…Hasan is not here.”

“
Hasan!
” the princess commands at the
top of her lungs, feeling the tears that stood at the back of her
throat break loose and rush in streams from her eyes. Then she
hears a quiet voice beside her.

“I am here, princess.”

“Hasan…” she whispers, suddenly drained of
all strength, sobbing, not even trying to hide the tears running
down her cheeks.

Hasan sits next to her on the bed and gently
touches her hand.

“Why are you crying, princess?” he asks
softly.

“I had that strange dream again, Hasan…,”
the princess whispers, the nightmare leaving her—feeling his
presence, his soft touch, make everything right as it usually does.
“Where have you been, Hasan?”

“The sultaness asked me to help prepare the
ceremonial hall, princess,” Hasan says. “The feast is to begin any
minute.”

“The feast,” the princess whispers
helplessly. “I completely forgot that I had to go somewhere…to
dress up…to comb my hair.”

“If you just sit still I will comb your hair
in no time, princess,” Airagad says firmly, seeing this turn of the
conversation as a chance to speed up the preparations. Feeling lost
and empty the princess bows her head, submitting to the nanny. But
in her brittle state she is unable to bear even the slightest pain,
and the first sharp pull of the comb makes tears run down her
cheeks again.

“Leave me alone, nanny—it hurts,” she begs
so plaintively that even the merciless Airagad steps back with
indecision.

“You must appear at the feast, princess.”

“She’s had a very difficult day,” Fatima says
gently, sitting on the bed next to the princess and hugging her
shoulders. “You just need to hold on a little bit longer, princess.
Be patient. Let me—very gently—comb your hair.”

But the princess is already beyond reason.
Over her head Fatima throws a helpless glance at Hasan, sitting on
the bed next to the princess.

“Princess?” Hasan calls out softly.

He reaches out with his hand, putting it
gently on the princess’s shoulder. Her sobs gradually quiet down as
she raises her tearstained face to him.

“Hasan,” she sobs. “I don’t want to go to
that feast. I don’t want
him
to see me like this. I simply
can’t go there now!”

“Everything will be fine, princess,” Hasan
says softly. He keeps his hand on her shoulder, and Fatima, holding
the princess in her arms, somehow feels that it is his touch that
makes her sobs become quieter; the strain in her body gradually
relaxes. Fatima carefully draws away from the princess, gets up,
and moves away to join Airagad, Zulfia, and Zeinab. The nannies
watch the scene with mixed expressions, showing both relief that
someone strong and wise is taking it upon himself to resolve the
problem and terror at the idea that the princess is sitting on her
bed with a handsome man who is touching her on the shoulder.

The princess slowly sinks into a state of
relaxed quietness and leans against Hasan’s shoulder, making the
nannies freeze in terror. Under any other circumstance they would
have definitely interfered. But now some inner voice tells them
everything is for the best, and nothing short of this will allow
them to deliver the princess to the engagement party in a suitable
condition for her role of the new bride. Transfixed, they watch
Hasan gently put his arms around the princess and caress her hair;
they watch as the princess stops crying and calms down to the point
when her now-dry and surprisingly fresh cheeks start to glow with
their usual faint color. And every one of the nannies feels a
half-conscious, strongly suppressed desire to see Hasan in place of
Prince Amir, to be the man with whom the princess is about to bind
her future. They think of it simultaneously, like a single creature
that wishes its young ward well, and at the same time is ashamed
that such well-being could only be achieved by unconventional
means.

“It is time to go, princess,” Hasan says
softly.

“Yes…,” the princess says, pulling away
from him with reluctance. She sees Airagad approach her with a comb
and draws back in fear.

“Hasan,” she exclaims, “can you do something
so that I won’t have to dress up and comb my hair? Can you use your
magic to make me dressed up with my hair all done?”

“Nothing could be easier, princess.” Hasan
smiles.

“Gods forbid, princess!” the large,
rosy-cheeked Zulfia exclaims, blushing even more, satisfying
everyone’s urge to call the princess to order. “How can you even
think of having a man help dress you?”

“But it is magic, nanny,” the princess
pleads, turning to Hasan. “Can you dress me in this outfit that
Zulbagad left for me?”

“Certainly, princess.”

The nannies jump up in surprise seeing the
princess’s long dress change into white, silver-embroidered pants
and blouse, similar to the ones she wore when she turned
twelve.

“What have you done, princess!” Zeinab
helplessly drops her arms. “Dressing like that is completely
unheard of!”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, nanny!” the
princess answers back.

Zeinab mumbles to herself, knowing that there
is really nothing indecent in all this, but feeling that as the
oldest nanny she shouldn’t have allowed it to happen. Ever since
his arrival, Hasan’s presence in the princess’s bedroom has been a
frustrating contradiction in itself; and Zeinab, like the other
nannies, could not find a best way to react. She feels it to be her
duty to grumble; and, saying something indistinct, she turns her
back to the princess.

“Well, Hasan,” the princess says, seeing that
at least for a while she is free to do as she wishes, “I think I
was told to put my hair in braids around my head…and something
else…”

“The Veriduan necklace, princess,” Fatima
reminds her.

“Oh, yes…but it is so big and
uncomfortable…such large pearls. All those diamonds…it must be
very valuable.”

“It certainly is,” Zeinab grumbles, rejoining
the conversation.

“Anything else, princess?” Hasan asks.

“The shawl, princess!” Zulfia exclaims. “And
the sapphire diadem.”

“Yes,” the princess agrees. “That seems to be
all.”

She looks in the mirror, making sure that her
outfit is perfect and her face bears no trace of tears. She inhales
deeply, enjoying the feeling of calm that Hasan has brought with
his touch.

“This is wonderful, Hasan—so easy. From now
on I want you always to dress me!”

“What are you saying, princess?” Zulfia
exclaims dutifully without much conviction in her voice. “Someone
may hear you, gods forbid!”

“Oh, nanny, what did I say?” she says,
accepting the game. “Are you ready yourself?”

“We are always ready,” Zeinab grumbles.

“I want Hasan to walk beside me,” the
princess says in a voice that dismisses all possible
objections.

“But your mother said…”

“Otherwise, I am not going anywhere!”

“All right, all right.”

The great ceremonial hall is shining with a
magnificence it hadn’t yet seen during the entire rule of the
sultan Chamar Ali. But the splendor of the best decorations fails
to outshine the glamour of foreign rulers, princes, and guests in
their rich, exotic raiments—representing the glory of their lands.
The display of power, riches, and majesty leaves everyone crowded
into the hall breathless with awe.

Even this giant hall, during the centuries of
its faithful service to the rulers of Dhagabad, had seldom seen so
many guests gathered for a holiday feast. This time, not one but
two rows of tables and cushions extend in a circle along the
periphery of the hall, leaving in the center not the usual open
space, but something more akin to a stage for entertaining the
noble guests. The front row of tables, with larger cushions and
more lavish decorations, is reserved for the foreign princes and
noblemen of their courts. The back row is left for the members of
their suites and for the lesser courtiers of Dhagabad.

The royal canopy at the end of the hall has
been extended to accommodate two new members of the royal
family—the princess—the heiress to the throne, now old enough to
take a seat beside her parents—and her bridegroom, the noble
Prince Amir, who will become the future sultan of Dhagabad.

The reduced open space in the hall is not
able to accommodate all of the guests waiting for the feast. The
doors stand wide open and guests are also crowded outside the hall
in the adjoining space that leads to the kitchens. The delicious
aromas coming from the kitchens make heads swim and mouths water in
anticipation of a feast that promises to equal the splendor of the
gathering.

In addition to the traditional
sankajat
and sweets, the servants carry on their trays foods
of foreign lands meant to please the noble guests—to make them feel
more at home. Cinnamon apricot cakes of Avallahaim are found in the
unlikely neighborhood of sour sesame bisquits of Baskary, dark bean
candy of Dimeshq, and spicy cabbage rolls of Megina. Princes and
their guests eagerly devour these delights, as they inhale their
heady aromas and strain their ears for the signal that will start
the ceremonial feast.

The sultan, the sultaness, and Prince Amir
have already made their appearance and are now standing in the hall
surrounded by a group of Veriduans. From time to time the sultaness
throws impatient glances at the passage that leads to the south
wing of the palace. She regrets that she left to the nannies the
important job of escorting the princess, and now, for some unknown
reason, all the noble guests are made to wait.

She throws an uninterested glance at a tall
girl with a wide face and straight, thick hair, who walks toward
their group with determination in her dark slanting eyes.

“Your majesty,” the girl says, bowing, and
throwing a sidelong glance at Prince Amir.

The sultaness catches a sparkle of interest
in the young prince’s eyes as recognition dawns on her.

“Alamid!” she exclaims, and adds collecting
herself—ignoring the irritation on her husband’s face—“Prince, this
is Alamid, the daughter of the master of ceremonies. She is the
princess’s playmate.”

“Charmed,” the prince says politely, making
the girl blush and lower her eyes. Obviously used to his effect on
women, the prince turns back to his conversation with the sultan
with a winning smile.

“Alamid, dear,” the sultaness says, “why
don’t you run along and see what is taking the princess so long?
The guests are waiting.”

“Yes, your majesty—” Alamid says, only to be
interrupted by fanfare and her father’s announcement:

“The princess of Dhagabad!”

A sigh of admiration passes through the great
hall at the sight of the princess. As it was on her twelfth
birthday, she is dressed in white. A light semitransparent shawl
covers her from her black hair, arranged in a crown around her
head, to the silver sandals on her small feet. A band of silver
around her brow forms a loop down the front, holding a large
tear-shaped sapphire in the middle of her forehead. On her right,
one step behind, walks Hasan. Metal bracelets shine on his bare
wrists, his face is impassive, but his very presence at the head of
the princess’s suite is like a gauntlet thrown down by the princess
to all the gathering—especially to the Veriduans. The sultaness
bites her lip and glances at Prince Amir. The young prince, though,
is a perfect gentleman. The friendly expression on his face never
changes. He smiles across the hall at his bride.

Before the feast can begin the princess has
to walk around to all the noble guests and the rejected suitors,
speaking in turn to each of them. By custom no one can feel
neglected today. The guests are arranged in groups; and the
princess with her small suite, hurriedly joined by the master of
ceremonies, moves toward them, feeling strangely uneasy. Something
in this hall—in the crowd of strange faces—scares her. But Hasan is
beside her. She steps toward the first group that awaits her.